


At time's end

by reginar



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Anthro/Lit Student Viktor, Bottom Victor Nikiforov, Death God AU, Death God Yuuri, Embedded Images, Folklore, God(dess) of Death, Happy Halloween!, Humor, It's Not Necrophilia If It's The Soul, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Poetry, Prose Poem, Reincarnation, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, death au, in some parts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-04 20:57:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16354175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reginar/pseuds/reginar
Summary: “I’m not going to mince words: you need to die, Nikiforov."There was always a presence over his shoulder, at the corner of his eye, or during the briefest brush with death.





	At time's end

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [Chel](https://shemakesmeforget.tumblr.com), [Nuri](http://pencilwalla.tumblr.com), and [Pearl](http://natsumi-no-hotaru.tumblr.com/) for beta'ing, and shoutout to [Luc](https://maydei.tumblr.com/) for being there when I first conceptualized this fic.  
>    
>  **Warning: Implied character death.**

 

* * *

Over the horizon, light and darkness stole from each other—in a state of unrest, a constant twilight, the sun about to set but never setting. At a distance, there stood a low, wooden building. It was shrouded by mist so thick the characters upon the arch were barely visible.

 _Utopia, huh_ , Viktor thought as he took the path to the entrance.

He slid the door open, and chimes signaled his arrival. The details were the same: the decorative birdhouse upon the bookshelf; beside it, books seemingly untouched but without dust; a potted bamboo that hadn’t grown since Viktor’s last visit; and the same animal and god figures on the counter. Suspended in time, they stared at Viktor, unmoving. There was something about the place that was both hostile and welcoming, in conflict like the sky outside.

There was scuffle from the kitchen, then the curtains parted: “Welcome to Yutopia—oh, it’s you,” said a woman. She had unruly hair, partially bleached under a cloth band. She shifted her weight on one leg and put a hand on her hip.

Viktor smiled. “You don’t sound too happy, Mari-neechan.”

She ignored the remark and gestured for him to come in.

They settled in one of the tables in the dining area. Drinks were served. As Mari lit her fourth cigarette, the cushion under Viktor began to feel uncomfortable. She gazed at him casually. Viktor gulped his half-empty cup of sake, and the burn on his throat was almost pleasant.

“Oh. I see,” said Mari, her eyes widening in realization. “What are you doing here, then? Don’t you Russians have other…?” She flicked her free hand, gesturing at the inn in general. “You know.”

“I was in the area,” said Viktor simply.

“An accident, I assume?”

“A natural one.”

“Finally. I don’t think there’s anything I can do, then.” Mari took a drag. “Yuuri is out, by the way. We can schedule you in… three days, I think? We can extend your stay to five, I’m sure he’d like that.”

Viktor frowned. “I actually wish to leave as soon as possible.”

If Mari was surprised, she didn’t show it. “Well, three days, then. We’re fully-booked so you get the banquet room.” She shrugged. “I’ll clean up,” she said and stood up to leave Viktor with the bottle and a still-burning cigarette upon the receptacle.

Later, Viktor took two flights of stairs to reach his room. He glanced at the single door at the end of the corridor before sliding the door to his open. It was small. A futon was set up in the middle, which was good enough for a three-day stay. Sleep came relatively easy. This was a selfish choice, to come here, but he knew he could be a little selfish.

* * *

There was always a presence over his shoulder, at the corner of his eye, or during the briefest brush with death. The first instance was when Yakov had turned his back on him to answer a reporter doing the coverage of his training: Viktor had jumped into a quad flip—one Yakov hadn’t let him try yet at eighteen, especially not in front of a reporter—and he fell, but somehow the ice on his back was gentle. He’d looked for all the world like he’d intended to lie down there. A blink and the blurry figure beyond the rink barrier had gone. Viktor had stayed awake for days, paranoid that he’d finally die.

But at twenty, Viktor was certain that someone was preventing him from dying at all, and he wanted to find out why. It was not until his undergraduate years that he found a direction: An anthropology major with a minor in literature, nobody paid him attention if he were checking out books about death from the library every other day. By the time he was in his final year, he had enough data to make a thesis out of his topic, but still, nothing on his specific dilemma.

* * *

In my old age, you told me, finally, the weight of our sins. A lifetime or two—you weren’t clear about it, perhaps there were more lifetimes of waiting. We never settled, because we never could. You begged me to move forward this time. I replied, heaven should not be a destination, but a connection. Why should your absence dictate my happiness?

In my deathbed, I refused God’s will and eloped with death.

* * *

“You are obsessed with your death, Viktor,” said Chris over a phone call. “It is a little weird.”

“I’m obsessed with finding out why someone _doesn’t_ want me dead,” corrected Viktor, as he scrolled through a PDF file on his laptop, “not necessarily my death itself.”

“Such a lit student. This is why you need to come back.”

Viktor had to take a break from skating. He’d reasoned it was a study break to finish his thesis and not a pursuit of life and death. Yakov hadn’t pushed him to juggle skating and university, but he seemed unhappy with Viktor’s decision. Young Yuri had a more explosive reaction—after all, Viktor had promised him choreography—but that was to be expected from the teenager.

“How many books have you read on the culture of death this week?”

“They’re not always books, so it’s hard to count. Sometimes I get articles from JSTOR.”

From France, Chris sighed in exasperation. “And have you progressed?”

“Yes, actually, I’m reading an article at the moment.”

“Oh? Am I bothering you?”

“No, no, no, talking helps me gather my thoughts. I took a folklore class this semester, and there’s something here about gods meddling with humans in order to gain servitude.”

“You think a god wants you as his servant?”

“Why else would he save me? And I am somewhat glad to be alive.”

“Why are you such a bottom?”

“Hey, if the god is cute,” joked Viktor.

* * *

Myths: Index of Motifs

I  
Birds furnish omen.  
Color of crow.  
Raising the sky.  
Ascent to stars.  
God falls in love with a mortal maiden. 

II  
Remarkable beauty.  
Origin of flowers.  
Origin of laughter.   
Lovers’ meeting: [“where the sky meets the sea”].

III  
Tragic love: [lover drowns].  
Origin of thunder: spirit’s anger.

IV  
Springs originate from tears.  
Deluge.  
Origin of rain: God caused it to fall.  
Cave as refuge.   
Navel of the earth.                                              

V  
Bring deluge to end.

* * *

Viktor tried his short program costume on, a shimmering purple suit with fiery red trims. There would be red petals set against his long, silver-white hair. He danced around the locker room, an imitation of his program on the ice. There was music in his head. He was ready for his comeback next month.

Then his feet kicked onto the bench, pushing it onto the lockers, which crushed him.

Or they should have. He found himself far from where the lockers fell. A feeling of heaviness enveloped him, pressing upon his head and torso. He knew what this was—he’d experienced it too many times in his life—he’d missed death.

“Where are you?” he asked to no one in particular, eyeing the room hastily before the noise invited people in to check on him.

Then behind him, there was someone.

“You!” said Viktor, and he scrambled to stand up. This was it. He could ask questions before the figure disappeared. The figure appeared human, Asian with black hair and wearing a black cloak. His wide, brown eyes were widely frightened, unexpectedly. Oh, but he looked really good.

“Let go of me.”

And he spoke Russian.

Viktor was confused. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You trapped me!” He gestured down, where red thread encircled him. Of course! Viktor had read about spirit traps before.

“How?”

“What do you mean how? You put that here.”

Viktor traced the thread to be attached to his costume. “I didn’t. It’s bad tailoring,” he said, shaking his head. “Who are you?”

The man glared. But his glare was soft, somewhat. “Yuuri, god of death,” he said in a begrudging tone.

Viktor blinked. “God of death… then, why are you preventing me from dying? What do you want from me?”

“I…” said Yuuri, hesitating, “I like your skating.”

Surprised, Viktor repeated, “The god of death likes my skating.”

Spots of pink appeared on Yuuri’s face. “And what’s wrong with that!”

“Oh! You meant it. Then…” Viktor was trying to gauge the actual living, breathing god of death in the locker room. He stepped forward and pulled the thread off from Yuuri. He looked into his eyes. “Why don’t you skate with me? After practice when everyone else has gone?”

Yuuri looked taken aback. He blinked, and then—“No.” He spun around dramatically with a swish of his cloak and smoke drifting from his feet. And then he was gone.

That was when Yakov barged into the room, yelling, “What happened, Vitya? Are you all right?”

Viktor was still looking at where Yuuri had disappeared. He wondered how someone who professed to like his skating could be so rude.

* * *

Head full of questions, Viktor had been staying out in the rink late for the past weeks. Today, Yuri had scoffed at him before shutting the doors after practice.

The god of death liked his skating, he remembered. He skated through his routine step by step imagining the music in his head. A double and a triple, a hip sway, a spin, and then a quad—he felt a slight tilt, he’d taken off the wrong footing, and suddenly he was in mid-air. Instead of falling, however, he floated down on the ice. There was a feeling of heaviness on his back. He looked up at the ceiling. Standing by his head was the very reason he had questions in the first place. Yuuri wore white, long-sleeved shirt and black slacks. He tapped his foot, like he was upset.

“I can’t believe you’re still skating! Look at the time,” Yuuri scolded. He swayed slightly, stepped back and slipped, except he floated before standing himself aright. This repeated. “I’m drinking with the Russian god of death when you summoned me. You could’ve died.”

“Are you drunk?”

“A little.”

“I summoned you?”

Yuuri froze, eyes wide. “No.”

“Did I almost die?”

“Let’s skate. No questions.”

So they skated in silence. The god of death had produced blades under his shoes. The high windows welcomed in moonlight, which illuminated the rink. They were a meter apart. Closer and they could be skating with each other, as a pair, but Viktor didn’t dare. He might scare the god away, not now, not when he’d had a chance to actually see Yuuri up close.

“I’m proud of you,” said Yuuri, smiling. Perhaps it was the god-tier alcohol, but he wasn’t as snobbish as before. “Your skating is so good. My favorite is your latest, _Stammi Vicino_ , but the _Lilac Fairy_ comes close.”

Viktor stared. “ _Lilac fairy_ is so old. How long have you followed my skating?”

“I’m a god,” said Yuuri simply.

“So can you do a quad axel?”

“Of course.”

Yuuri skated ahead and jumped with ease. Viktor watched in awe.

“Now,” said Yuuri, “don’t try that without your coach.”

“Can I try it now? You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Don’t tempt death.”

“Oh, am I tempting you?”

Yuuri huffed. “No.”

He was an amazing skater, and it was humbling to be in his presence, Viktor thought. Viktor had never felt so grounded before. Fans had elevated him, but with Yuuri, now, he felt human.

* * *

For an inn that was supposed to be fully-booked, it was awfully quiet. Was silence the sound of death? Viktor remembered in his own studies that some cultures celebrated death in some way. In another country in Asia, funerals were accompanied by noisy gambling. Sometimes karaoke. He brought it up with Mari, who was, once again, manning the counter.

“Sure, you can play cards or bingo, if you find someone to play with,” she said, shrugging.

“I can play with you and Yuuri—where is Yuuri?”

“Doing his job. And I should too. I need to clean up.”

Viktor squinted. “This place is suspended in time. There’s no dust.”

“Just because people are dead, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t clean up the baths.”

He continued jesting with Mari, but he was distracted. He hadn’t seen Yuuri at all.

* * *

“I was thinking of you,” said Viktor as he sank to his bed. “That’s why I almost… died, I guess?” He yawned. “Stay, please,” he requested, and he fell asleep.

A delicious smell woke Viktor up. He reached out for Makkacchin but found himself alone. He crawled out of bed and proceeded out of his room. In the kitchen, there was Yuuri, cooking, and by his feet, Makkacchin slept soundly. Viktor blinked and scrunched his eyes; Yuuri was still there.

Yuuri turned around. “Oh, you’re awake,” he said. He smiled shyly. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Viktor replied, running a hand through his hair. “You speak Russian well.”

“I’m not speaking Russian; you’re just hearing Russian.”

“And you’re sober.”

Yuuri blushed. “I’m sorry about that.”

Viktor waved a hand as he took a seat.

“I made you katsudon. It’s not really breakfast food, but it’s the only thing I can make. I summoned ingredients, so it’s real food.”

“Did I accidentally trap you again?” asked Viktor, eyeing Yuuri’s body for any thread. Yuuri was still wearing the white shirt and black slacks from last night. It was odd how human he looked, how his body was real underneath his clothing. Viktor liked this outfit more than the cloak.

“You asked me to stay.” Yuuri served him the meal and sat down beside him. “So I stayed.”

“Are you sorry I almost died because I keep thinking of you?” There was a hint of teasing in Viktor’s voice. He couldn’t help it; Yuuri was cute. He could just hear Chris laughing at him. He found a cute god, and now he was flirting with said god. If this were a dream, then there was nothing to lose.

Yuuri blushed again, a stronger shade of red this time, and Viktor beamed.

“So why is the Japanese god of death alerted whenever I almost die?” Viktor picked up a fork. “You said there’s a Russian one?”

“He’s a friend. He’s new to the job—just got promoted.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“No, it is not.”

Yuuri watched Viktor eat, which made Viktor somewhat self-conscious, but mostly he did not mind. Through the fallen strands of his hair, he watched Yuuri back.

Afterwards, Yuuri said, “I must go.”

“Stay longer.”

“Someone will find out,” he said firmly as he stood up. “I hope we don’t find each other again.” There was sternness in Yuuri’s voice.

Viktor made to touch Yuuri’s arm, but Yuuri recoiled. It hurt Viktor as Yuuri vanished, leaving nothing but smoke behind.

* * *

It was terrible. After Worlds, Viktor still came to the rink, even though Yakov admonished him for not taking a break. He knew it himself it was not for practice. He was purposefully becoming reckless, but he had not seen Yuuri in months. On a night such as this, his take-off was imprecise, his landing sloppy.

Then Viktor had a ridiculous idea: Maybe a quad axel would summon him.

As soon as he jumped, he knew he’d land badly. He fell on his side and his body skidded across the ice. He groaned in pain, but still, no Yuuri. The cold was sharp against his skin as he crawled out of the rink.

Trying another jump would either summon Yuuri at last or it could worsen his injury. He tried to stand, but to no avail. He pulled himself onto a bench, where he slept until morning when Yakov found him with a fever in addition to an injured ankle.

The first few days were hell. Yakov brought him to Lilia’s, so both of them could watch over him, even though they were divorced. They shifted watches—Lilia during the day, and Yakov at night.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Yuri shouted as soon as he entered the room. “Even I wouldn’t try a quad without a coach around!”

Viktor buried himself in bed and pulled the blanket to his head. “Hullo, Yurio,” he grumbled. He’d decided on that nickname to avoid confusion in his head, but in his feverish state, it had gotten out.

“Yurio? _Yurio_? Did you just call me Yurio?”

“I know a Yuuri.” Viktor peered over the blanket. He knitted his brow. “He’s now Yuuri. You, Yurio.”

Yuri placed a hand on Viktor’s forehead. “You are mad. First, I have to take care of your dog for you, and now this.” He sat down on the bedside chair and crossed his arms, huffing. “I went to your apartment to pick her up.”

“Thanks.”

“I saw all the books. They’re all over the place.” He frowned. “Saw your notes and all.”

Viktor looked up at Yuri, who averted his eyes. Those books were about various topics on folklore, some about deities falling in love with mortals, but most were about death.

“Listen,” said Yuri, reddening. “I don’t know much about being an adult, but I don’t want you dying. Get well, idiot.” With that, he stood up and left.

* * *

The Wife of the Moon

In the beginning, the moon tripped and fell, and the world was plunged in darkness. At the back of the house, Estrella was drawn to the cluster of trees, where there was a glow from within the foliage—the only source of light tonight. She weaved her way through the tall grass and then looked up to see, cradled upon the branches, the sleeping figure of a beautiful woman. The woman’s skin glowed gold, then dimmed as she sighed in her sleep.

Estrella nudged the woman’s dangling feet, and the woman yawned awake and sat up.

“Who are you?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.

“I’m Estrella, the strongest in this land. What are you doing on my trees?”

“I’m Luna. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Will you marry me?”

Estrella blushed; after all, Luna was a more beautiful woman. She offered up a hand. “I can’t marry you, because I don’t know you yet,” she said. “I can help you climb down, however.”

“You’re very kind.”

Since then, Luna had come to live with Estrella, and since then, everywhere, there was darkness after twilight. Only the sun could light up the lands, and evil spirits escaped from under floor tiles every night.

When they grew to know each other, Estrella became the wife of Luna and Luna, the wife of Estrella. At the night of their wedding, Luna lit up the town center with her radiance. They lived happily for a while, until the light Luna emitted dimmed gradually; she fell ill, unable to get up even after the rooster’s fifth crow in the morning.

On the second day of Luna’s illness, Estrella called for the town priestess.

“She is ill,” said the priestess.

“How will she get better?”

“When the nights are better.”

“What do you mean?”

“How long has our lands suffered from evil at night without the moon? She is not of this mortal land, Estrella, she needs to go back to her world. She is made to light not just your home, but everyone’s. Bring her back to the sky.”

“How?”

“Carry her on your back on the way to La Nariz.”

La Nariz was part of the mountain range shaped like a woman lying on her back. It was the highest peak, and her forests were infested with bloodthirsty giants.

And so Estrella carried her wife on her back and brought her up the mountain. On her way, giants attacked her but she fought them off, except for their leader, who continued to chase her up the peak. She placed her wife up the sky, but the giant caught up to her and slashed her into pieces. Above them, Luna shone again. She reached down for her wife and kept her pieces with her. They became the stars.

* * *

On the fourth day, Viktor had to be brought to the hospital. He felt his body burning intensely, and his ankle’s injury didn’t help. His temperature went up until the hospital room blurred, and then it was gone. At the foot of his bed, he saw Yuuri’s concerned face. He closed his eyes and sighed. Was that relief? Viktor sat up, tried to call out, but Yuuri had already gone on to leave. Viktor jumped off from the bed and followed. The paths he took, the oceans he crossed, were nothing compared to his desire to meet Yuuri again.

He arrived at an arch with Japanese characters. The structure appeared to float above the thick fog. Beyond, there was a sunset.

* * *

“Welcome to Yutopia.” The woman had an indifferent tone as she continued to wipe the counter, as if he were the hundredth person to be greeted. He probably was. She went on to a spiel: “You must be confused why you arrived here, but don’t worry, there’s an ongoing seminar right now that will explain everything, but if you’re not yet ready to face that, there’s another one tomorrow. You can take a dip in the onsen for now, while I finish. Please leave the six coins at the counter. I’ll give you your keys—” She straightened up and took a good look at him. “—later… oh, we meet finally.”

Viktor was confused. “I’m sorry, what?”

She pursed her lips, a disapproving look on her face. “Viktor Nikiforov,” she said. “That’s who you are currently, right?” She went around the counter and squinted at him. “And you’re not dead.” She said it like a fact. “You smell earthly. How did you come here?”

“What do you mean by that?” Viktor didn’t know what to make of the ‘earthly’ comment. “I’m looking for Yuuri. Do I know you?”

“No, but we have a lot to talk about. And Yuuri is resting. Come here.” She marched ahead and Viktor followed. They sat down at a low table, facing each other.

“I’m not going to mince words: you need to die, Nikiforov. But not the way you’ve been going at it in your past lifetimes.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Yuuri’s sister. Call me Mari.” Her smile was nowhere near sincere. “Do you know the saying, ‘One must welcome death as a friend’? How you should welcome death at the right time? It says friend, not lover, Nikiforov.”

“ _What_?”

“I can’t believe I’m the one to break it to you in this lifetime.” Mari massaged her temple. “Okay so: You have been reincarnated far too many times and you need to stop.”

Viktor furrowed his brow. “Why? Why was I reincarnated? Why do I need to stop?”

“Listen, humans have four lives. ‘One that sows, one that waters, one that reaps, and one that consumes.’ You live your four lives before you go to heaven.”

“And where am I now?”

“More than that. Now, I don’t know why—Yuuri wouldn’t tell me. All I know is that seeing you live again and again, going through childhood and killing yourself at the end of your lifetimes, it hurts my brother.” Mari narrowed her eyes. “You’re this constant in his immortal godly life that he can’t move on from. He’s been preventing you from killing yourself for thousands of years risking the wrath of the—well, the higher god of all, to make things simple.”

“Just because he liked my skating?”

“Is that what he told you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s not all. He knows you. That’s why. But anyway, Yuuri’s been trying to get you to heaven, and you’re a pain in the ass. Got it? I need you to understand—Yuuri is suffering.”

And it hurt Viktor to know that. He inhaled, then sighed. “How about—what if I didn’t really kill myself, what if they were accidents?”

Mari shrugged. “Accidents are the gray areas. What makes an accident different from suicide? One careless act is only one step away from lack of will to live.

“Now go. Make sure you live your life.”

And so, that night, after he’d woken up in the hospital, Viktor had decided.

* * *

The day finally arrived. Viktor knelt on the futon, his knees dipping into the softness. He inhaled, and the scent of the flowers in the banquet room filled his head. The image of spring came to mind—life and birth. Blue roses surrounded his pillows, like a crowning glory, as he laid down carefully, afraid to even crease the sheet. After he had covered himself with the blanket, his arms rested at his sides.

And then, he waited.

He didn’t know how long it took; he’d lost count of his own breathing. At his right, the door slid open, and quiet feet approached.

It was about to begin.

Viktor trained his eyes on the ceiling until Yuuri came into view, wearing a black hakama. Kneeling, Yuuri placed a basin of water on the floor, the clinking of ceramic on wood clear in the silence, and lit some incense, which mingled with the fresh flowers around them. As he moved, he had a blank expression to the point of control. When he dipped two fingers into the water and touched Viktor’s lips, there was nothing to read from his face, even though the touch signaled the reality of Viktor’s death. Viktor’s lips quivered against the warm fingers; his eyes prickled but he willed himself not to cry.

“I will now commence with the rite,” said Yuuri, putting his palms together. He closed his eyes before placing his hands on the sides of Viktor’s face and pressing softly, and then the cheeks. Underneath the blanket, he untied Viktor’s robes. His hands moved up to Viktor’s collar and pushed it down the shoulders. When the blanket moved slightly to reveal skin, Yuuri immediately covered it; the body was holy and must not be seen.

Viktor figured that the gentle manner in which Yuuri proceeded with the rite usually lulled the dead into a comfortable slumber. Not him, however. He was enormously aware of every contact—Yuuri’s fingers like feathers, Yuuri lifting his back with an arm to pull the robe off. His skin remembered two-thousand-year-old memories of intimacy:

* * *

You splayed me over the altar of the abandoned temple. Here, you said, here no one would find us. Here, we would be one. I cast the robes off my mortal form. The marble was cold and hard against my back, but I didn’t mind. I gazed at the statue of some old god people had forgotten to worship. That was before you kissed me, and I closed my eyes, felt your weight over me, your clothed groin on my naked cock. I begged you to remove this barrier, to let me touch you. If gods could pray, then that was the closest to praying I’d ever gotten.

Like man, with my mouth and my tongue, speaking in the language of devotion, I prayed to you.

Did you hear my prayers, Yuuri? You undid your robes as soon as I thought it, came back on top of me, ground your hips on mine, whispered my name to my ear repeatedly, utterances over utterances, like a chorus.

You lifted my legs up to your shoulders, and from your pocket you produced the holy oil. You poured it over my groin. You anointed my entrance. I moaned and bucked my hips, praying, again, praying, but this time you did not hear. You continued anointing me. I pulled you down for a kiss, my tongue in your mouth, my teeth biting your lips. This was my invocation.

* * *

Yuuri laid the robes atop the blanket and tucked Viktor in with it securely before pulling the blanket off altogether. He folded it at Viktor’s feet. When he came back up, his breathing was slightly erratic and his facade had cracked. They stared at each other until tears splashed down Viktor’s cheek. Yuuri had begun crying. When he turned away to soak a towel, Viktor cried too.

“I will now cleanse you.”

At the last syllable, Yuuri’s voice broke. By the time he had lifted the robe, he was sobbing. He wiped Viktor’s shoulders, arms, hands. It was odd, the feeling of hot, wet cloth and the brushes of Yuuri’s hand. Yuuri went to his chest, and Viktor could feel his nipples growing erect. He shivered as the cloth made its way down to his stomach. Yuuri was careful to clean all of Viktor, so when it arrived at his pelvis, he anticipated the sensations of familiar hands:

* * *

Two gods of death became one in this temple. You entered me like a sinner desperate for salvation, a disciple of transgression. Perhaps that was why you brought me here.

You bit my neck until my mortal form bled, and the pain was so blissful, I had ascended. The temple was now a choir of our own worship for each other. I moaned a song for you for each time you thrusted into me. You stroked my cock until my voice escalated. When I orgasmed, you pulled out and turned me around. Before I could complain, you pressed me face-down on the altar, my flesh an offering to you.

What spirit possessed you as you grabbed my hips and shoved your cock into me? Whom do I give praise and thanks? I gasped, _Amen, Amen, Amen_.

And then, you came. I whined when you pulled out, but the spilling, hot trails on my flesh mixed with the oil you anointed me with were heaven in itself.

But heaven collapsed as soon as we settled. The old god awakened in rage for our tresspasses. I told the old god, _Punish only me_ , and he said, _Welcome death as a friend_.

I had become mortal, and you, my love, stayed as you were.

* * *

Hair brushed back, dressed in kimono for departure, beads around his hands, and slippers on his feet, Viktor was ready. Yuuri helped him stand up, then led him out of the room and down the stairs. The inn was quiet, solemn. They went out a door at the back, where it opened to the wide expanse of the sea. Tied to the shore was a boat made of white wood, carved intricately on the sides with curlicues.

Yuuri assisted Viktor into the boat, their hands holding each other tightly. They didn’t say a word, but their eyes never left each other as Viktor sat down.

The sun, always on the verge of setting, painted their faces an orange glow.

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- I made the illustration first as a cover of a zine, which then inspired me to create this fic.  
> \- I lifted the index poem from the index of motifs in Damiana Eugenio's _The Myths_.  
>  \- "One that sows, one that waters, one that reaps, and one that consumes," is from the k-drama, _Goblin_ (2016).  
>  \- _Departures_ (2008) influenced the ending.  
>  \- I'm [reginarfic](http://reginarfic.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! Tag for related stuff is ["/fic: at time's end"](https://reginarfic.tumblr.com/tagged/fic%3A-at-time%27s-end/).


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